the thing is, even in the most awful hours, when I’m really stressed out or tired or just worried, I never don’t want to be doing this. Our worst night was the night before my last post (COULD YOU TELL?) and even THEN, she woke up and wasn’t exactly grinning, but she was bright eyed and calm and just gazing up at us and OH MY GOD, it’s good. If it were any other baby crying and fighting the breast at 3 am, I’d be all like "How’s about I sell you to the circus, or the Jolie-Pitts or someone" if it weren’t MY kid crying. My kid, I’m just wanting to make it BETTER.

If all I had to do was take care of Ingrid, I would be ALL SET. What ends up sending me to frustration land is trying to do anything ELSE. It took me TWO HOURS to pay four bills last night, in between feeds and changes and "what’s wrong, babybug?" and that was WITH Dave’s assistance. Seriously, to write four checks, get them in their envelopes, with stamps and a return address — TWO HOURS. And, HA! I thought I’d get laundry folded, and no, I didn’t, because the BILLPAYING took so damn long, so there are what, 2? Maybe 3? loads of laundry on the guest bed, waiting to be folded. And thank you notes, those are dangling over myhead as well, and let’s not even MENTION my last papers for school. INSANE.  It will all get done, in due time, right?

Ingrid’s doing well; today is National Spitup Day, apparently, since she’s wrecked three onesies so far, and my shirt, and Kate’s hoodie in the process, so I dug out Ingrid’s First Bib, a cute froggy number from kb (hi, kb!) that her daddy loves because it is frogalicious. And maybe it will salvage onesie number FOUR. She eats and sleeps and poops, and now she spits. It just figures, since I am so ANTI-puke, that my baby is a pukey one. Sigh.

I still love her, though, even when her tiny fists are pounding at my breast in the wee hours of the morning. I’ll be really excited when she makes the connection that the fists pushing me AWAY are her OWN. Seriously.